


when your hands leap towards mine, love

by foxinsocksinabox



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 22:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxinsocksinabox/pseuds/foxinsocksinabox
Summary: The opening notes of an Debussy’sPremière Arabesquecut through the air like rain on glass. It’s slower than Victor’s heard it played before, and something about it sounds- lonely. Wistful, almost. Somehow it suits the quiet and the early hour, and before he knows it, Victor’s hooked, as surely as if he was a fish on a line.





	when your hands leap towards mine, love

**Author's Note:**

> for [multilinear](https://multilinear.dreamwidth.org/), who prompted:
> 
> musician au! choice of musical instrument is up to you, but anything exploring victuuri as artists of another form would be appreciated :D

There isn’t really much to do at Charles de Gaulle airport at three in the morning- especially not if you have a four hour transit window, and have been to Paris before.  
  
Victor is far too awake and much too restless to be able to while away his time in the airport lounge. Instead, he wanders. A lot of the shops are closed, but there are a few cafes still open- catering to unfortunates like him, stuck in transit limbo with bodies out of sync with Paris timing.  
  
But the thought of another coffee-- his third-- is, to be honest, not very appealing. Victor has just pulled his phone out of his pocket with a sigh, considering logging onto the free airport wifi, even if just to send Yakov sad selfies, when he hears it.  
  
The opening notes of an Debussy’s _Première Arabesque_ cut through the air like rain on glass. It’s slower than Victor’s heard it played before, and something about it sounds- lonely. Wistful, almost. Somehow it suits the quiet and the early hour, and before he knows it, Victor’s hooked, as surely as if he was a fish on a line.  
  
The echoing vastness of the airport lends the music an almost ethereal air, like a siren song. Without consciously deciding to, Victor turns to follow his ears.  
  
It takes him a short while to track the music down. Before he finds the pianist, the Debussy segues into something he vaguely recognises from a movie Mila forced on him last year, and then into something melancholy and Baroque. But as Victor rounds the corner, finally spying a young man sitting at a bright red upright, the pianist stops mid-chord, hums, and launches into something faster instead.  
  
Victor doesn’t know how long he stands there, roller bag in one hand and phone clutched loosely in another, just staring at the pianist’s back as he tinkers, playing half of one song and a third of another. He’s young, Victor thinks, and maybe handsome. He can’t see much, especially since the pianist is swathed in a giant, puffy blue coat, but Victor registers the outline of a narrow waist, spies a graceful arch of neck beneath feathery black hair. And- his eyes catch particularly on elegant fingers- long, trim, nimble. Musician’s hands.  
  
Victor knows it’s irrational, but he thinks that no one with such beautiful hands could ever _not_ be handsome.  
  
He might have stood there staring until the pianist decided he was done- except a familiar chord sequence catches his ears. Something fizzy and excited bubbles in his chest as he takes a step forward.  
  
He leaves his roller bag behind and slides onto the piano stool, covering the startled lapse in music at his appearance by fitting his own fingers over the right chords. Victor knows this song- he loves the mutability of jazz even if it isn’t often on his performance repertoire- and he thinks it wonderfully fitting that he should play _The Man I Love_ with this stranger, whose music has wormed its way so quickly into his soul.  
  
It takes a good ten seconds of Victor staring determinedly at his own hands, a flush rapidly rising onto his cheeks, before the other man joins in.  
  
They play for- hours, days, who knows? Victor only knows that the sky outside is starting to lighten when an announcement sounds overhead, in French and English, and his duet partner hits a discordant note with a yelp.  
  
“My flight!” The other man exclaims. He turns to Victor and practically trips over his own tongue, so much that Victor honestly doesn’t understand what he tries to say next.  
  
But with a sense of their time drawing to a close, Victor turns to take the other man in fully. His pianist, now that he’s looking at him properly for the first time, is at the same time not conventionally handsome and the most beautiful man Victor’s ever seen.  
  
“I- I have to- _thank you_ , I mean, that was amazing, um-”  
  
He cuts himself off as Victor takes his hands, and brings them to his chest. “No, thank _you_ ,” Victor says with a grin, squeezing those trembling fingers. Imagine, so much beauty packed into such tiny fingernails! “That was incredible. My name is V-”  
  
“Victor Nikiforov!” The man blurts out instead, before going abruptly scarlet. “I mean, I’m not- I know who you are. I saw you perform in St. Petersburg two years ago. The Rachmaninovs.”  
  
“Did you?” Victor can barely contain his delight. “I’m glad- Did you enjoy it?”  
  
“Did I _enjoy_ \- of course I did, you’re amazing! You’re why I started playing the piano!”  
  
There is a proper response to that, Victor is sure of it. Yet all he can do is sit there, eyes wide, as a beautiful young man with musical hands confesses that _Victor_ is his inspiration, and all he can think is- _I want to know you._  
  
“Give me your phone,” is what he says instead, and Victor doesn’t even wait for his pianist to hand it over, practically snatching it out of his hands. A final boarding call sounds overhead, as Victor nearly drops the phone in his haste to input his contact details and give his own phone a missed call.  
  
The other man is staring at him with his mouth half-open when Victor shoves the phone back at him.  
  
“Here,” he says. “Where are you going? I need to be in London until next week but-”  
  
“Japan.” Is it just him, or does his pianist sound breathless? “I’m going home- to Hasetsu, it’s-”  
  
“Hasetsu. I’ll find it,” Victor promises, and as the other man starts and turns away, he suddenly realises- “Wait!”  
  
The airport lighting is harsh, but Victor still thinks he’s never seen a more gorgeous man in his life. He can feel the flush warming his ears as he admits, “I don’t know your name.”  
  
“Oh. _Oh_.” For the first time, a shy smile creeps onto the other man’s face, and he scratches the back of his neck. “I’m Yuuri Katsuki. Just- just Yuuri.”  
  
Victor beams. “Yuuri, then.” Yuuri’s name comes over the speakers, now. “You’re going to miss your flight, Yuuri. You should go.”  
  
Yuuri yelps, and Victor laces his hands together in his lap to stop himself from reaching for the other man as he snatches up his backpack and duffle, pauses with his body half-turned in the direction of his boarding gate.  
  
“Um,” Yuuri says. “I- I hope you do manage to come. To Hasetsu. After you’re done in London.”  
  
Victor smiles. “When you land in Japan, you should call me. If you like.”  
  
Yuuri turns several shades of red, before he squares his shoulders, and says quickly, “I would like that very much.”  
  
They stare at each other again for another frozen moment, before Yuuri glances past him, makes a horrified noise, and flees, skidding around the corner in his haste to get to his boarding gate.  
  
When he turns around to search for the source of Yuuri’s horror, Victor realises for the first time that the airport has started to fill up since he first sat down at the piano with Yuuri. There is a small sea of phones pointed in his direction, and rather too many raised eyebrows and knowing smirks peeking out from behind them for Victor’s comfort  
  
A flush rises to his cheeks. He ducks his head under the guise of checking his phone- and swears, colourfully, when he realises he has five minutes to get to his own boarding gate, halfway across the airport.  
  
But it’s alright, he thinks, as he sprints towards his gate with roller bag in tow. In a few hours he’ll speak to Yuuri again, and maybe, when he gets to London, when he’s done with performances and publicity and work-  
  
Maybe he’ll start looking up flights to Japan.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Your Hands_ , by Pablo Neruda. 
> 
> Come talk to me on [twitter!](http://www.twitter.com/foxrocksyrsocks)


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